Goodnight
by Scented-Marker-Sniffer
Summary: Only a few years after losing his home to the darkness, Leon refused to stop training, stop preparing. He just couldn't risk losing what little he had...


**I'm not really sure how to describe this one—Leon-centric angst with Aerith friendship and mentions of Rinoa? (Is that a thing?) Anyway, this takes place roughly five years pre-KH 1, so... Yes.**

**Anyway, reviews are appreciated but certainly not required. Thanks for visiting and I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

_Thrust. Parry. Shoot. Block. Duck. Punch. Slash. Left feint. Stab. _

The sequence of words ran through Leon's mind as he defeated the hordes of nonexistent enemies in the dank waterway below Traverse Town. There was no doubt a terrifying expression on his face as he swung and stabbed his oversized blade with a vicious sort of rage he didn't dare show in public—no, his relationship with the girls and Cid was fragile and dysfunctional as it was; he didn't need to complicate anything by getting anywhere near this angry around them.

Leon did this often these days—disappeared into the waterway for hours on end, endlessly training and re-perfecting his already impeccable fighting skills in preparation for another attack of the Heartless that destroyed his home some amount of years ago (honestly, he was beginning to lose track). Everyday, he trained and trained and trained, refusing to rest until he was satisfied, which was usually after an unhealthy amount of hours. He worked himself to the bone, to the point where he passed out or became sick. It got to where Aerith and Yuffie forbade him to go to the waterway anymore, but eventually they gave up enforcing this rule, because he always went anyway, regardless of what they tried to do to stop him. No, he wouldn't stop training—those Heartless could be back any day now, and this time, he was going to be ready. He would take every single one of them out by himself, if he had to. He wouldn't consider the dark, dirty Traverse Town his home, or the ragtag group of survivors that he lived with his friends, but damn it, it was something and he refused to lose what little he had.

One of his bullets had just hit the wall, leaving yet another scorch mark and chipping the paint of the glowing mural nearby, when the quiet voice made itself heard. "Leon."

A bit startled, being as the only sounds he had heard in the past several hours had been explosions and his own harsh breathing, said man turned to face the voice. Aerith stood there at the foot of the stairs, one hand clutched in a fist in the center of her chest, quiet green eyes not bothering to conceal their concern.

"What," Leon muttered tonelessly, turning away to continue practicing.

Ignoring the harsh reply, Aerith said softly, "Leon, it's been five hours. You need to come home. You can't keep doing this; it's bad for you."

Leon grimaced slightly but decided not to interject his usual 'Hotel, Aerith, _hotel._ House. Not home.'

"Maybe so. But when they come, I'll be ready." The scarred man punctuated the promise with a vicious stab forwards, impaling an imaginary nightmare.

"Oh, Leon," Aerith murmured, so quietly the dark-haired young man almost couldn't hear her, "Do you really think all this training is going to make you forget her?"

The man whirled around on the flower girl, who smiled at him sadly, pityingly. He nearly raised his sword to finish her, just for bringing up the subject that had long ago been labeled as completely forbidden, but instead sighed, exhausted in more ways than one. It wasn't Aerith's fault. It wasn't anybody's fault but his.

Without a word, he began trudging up the stairs, and Aerith followed silently, wisely not saying another word as they traipsed through Traverse Town. All times of day looked the same here, but according to the generally accepted clock, it was getting late, and other than a few new arrivals wandering about, stuck on their destroyed homes' time schedules, few people besides themselves were out.

They arrived at the hotel, and Aerith waved to the shady character that never left its post behind the front desk. They walked in step down to the rooms, Leon opening the door to the green one and Aerith to the red. Before Leon could slam his door shut, as he did every night, Aerith placed her hand on his to stop him, gazing at him beseechingly.

"Please, Leon. Try to get some sleep tonight."

He nodded gruffly, shook her delicate hand off, and, ignoring the quiet call of "Goodnight, Leon," shut the door behind him.

He flicked the light on, illuminating the spotless room, while mechanically shedding his jacket and listening to the voices pervading the thin walls from the next room over.

"He's home? He's really home?! Yeah!" Eleven-year-old Yuffie, and judging by the squeaking of mattress springs she was jumping on the bed in her excitement.

"Yuffie, shh," Aerith chided quietly.

"I wanna go see him! I wanna go see him right now!" A thud of feet, indicating that Yuffie had jumped down from the bed, that took several steps before stopping at Aerith's warning.

"Yuffie, please. He's very tired. Leave him be for tonight; you can see him tomorrow."

"Ohh, but Aaaaerith..."

"Come on Yuffie, let's go to bed; it's getting late."

"... Yeah, okay..."

The shuffling in the other room eventually ceased, and all was quiet again.

Leon gave a leaden sigh, lining his boots up at the door. Methodically, he sat at the small table pushed into the corner of the room and slowly ate the cold dinner Aerith had left for him hours before, not really tasting the food on his plate, before changing into his night-clothes. He sat on his bed and read for some time, not processing the words on the page but managing to convince himself he was too busy to ponder anything.

Finally, when he could fool himself no longer, the man gave a defeated sigh. He remade his already perfect bed, rearranged his pillows, drank a glass of water, and even gave a cursory glance under the bed and in the closet for the monsters Yuffie was often so afraid of, more out of a desire to occupy himself than actual fear that he could have harbored something in the dark of his storage spaces.

Finally, he settled himself into bed and turned off the light. For all his training, for all his preparations, sleep still refused to come. And so in the darkness, he laid for hours, staring blankly at the ceiling above.

Nothing. For the first time in a long time, he felt... nothing. No hurt. No anger. No sadness. No happiness. No peace. Just nothing.

In the morning, the scarred man stole away under the sun that didn't rise, carrying his precious sword in his hand and his obsessive goal in his mind.

When they came, he'd be ready.

* * *

Aerith woke in the morning and wearily pulled herself out of bed. Carefully, so as not to wake Yuffie, she tiptoed over to the dividing door to Leon's room and peered inside.

Empty.

She closed the door with an equally barren sigh, refusing to cry over something she could never prevent, despite the best efforts she gave that meant nothing to anyone but herself.

When Leon staggered into his room that night, there was no dinner waiting on the table, and not a living soul said goodnight.


End file.
